


Breathe Again

by Stisaac



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fred Weasley Lives, Fred is alive because he should have never died in the first place, Gen, I am the Queen of Denial, I can't afford therapy so I write, I just can't deal ya'll, JK Rowling was wrong, PLEASE JK, okay i'm done, petition for jk rowling to bring Fred back now, so I fixed it, so please join me in this poorly written and poorly tied together story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-25 15:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18577684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stisaac/pseuds/Stisaac
Summary: Fred and George.  George and Fred.  Gred and Forge.  However you looked at it, Fred and George were two halves of a whole.  A pair tied together by an invisible string that only they could fully understand.  They knew each other inside and out, upside down and right side up.  Not a day passed that someone confused one for the other, but they liked it that way.  There was security in being able to hide in two identities even if they were almost completely identical in both appearance and manner.  When George lost an ear, they lost a lot of that security.  But they still had each other.  They'd be okay as long as they had each other.





	1. The Beginning is the End

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings. Let me start off by explaining that I didn’t read Harry Potter growing up. I didn’t read the books until the year before the final movie was released in theaters. So when I say that I’ve relapsed in my grief over the death of Fred Weasley, I do realize that I’m a few years behind everyone else. But I’m terrible at grieving in both the real and fictional world and when I decided to reread the Harry Potter books (for the fifth time) I wasn’t prepared for just how bad it hurt. But here I am, a fully grown “adult” writing another piece of fanfiction because I just cannot handle the truth. Denial. She’s a mean one. 
> 
> I searched through the archives of “Fred lives” on both AO3 and fanfiction.net and found some beautifully written stories but just not enough for my feeble heart. It’s hitting me hard this time and maybe that’s because I’ve let it become more difficult for me to separate fiction from personal stuff, but I’m just so angry that JK Rowling killed one of the twins. It’s just so unnecessarily gut-wrenching and I just have an overabundance of thoughts and feelings and I’m just letting them spill out here. I just can’t deal with Fred dying this time around.
> 
> Rowling has been killing me with these silly little tweets and add-ons, pretending that she’s had all of this content stored away for twenty years when she’s really just trying to milk the Harry Potter cash cow for all its worth and then some. But if she ever tweets out that she regrets killing Fred and that she’s decided he’s alive because of whatever contrived and ridiculous miracle, I will accept it as canon without question or complaint. Until that day that I will continue to hope for. . . here’s my contrived and ridiculous (and also poorly written) miracle.

Once, when Fred and George were very little, maybe five or six, George almost drowned.  He young, but he remembers nearly everything about that day. He remembers the helplessness that soaked into him and pulled him down just as quick as the water itself.  He remembers the weight of his soaked clothing making his arms and legs heavy, too heavy to keep his head above the surface, and the feeling as though there were invisible hands pulling him down, down, down.  He remembers the burning in his small chest as he wanted so desperately to breathe, the edges of his vision already shrouded by the murky water turning black as he began to lose consciousness.

Fortunately for him, Fred was very quick despite his age and size, and he was  _very_ loud.  As soon as his twin had slipped on the wet dock and plunged beyond his reach, Fred had opened his mouth and let out a scream that even penetrated through George’s panic.  He took off running towards the Burrow, calling for help with each step and though it had felt like an eternity for the both of them, it was less than a minute before their brother Bill met Fred up the path.  He was only about twelve but somehow managed to decipher Fred’s tearful cries of “George” and frantic pointing towards the small lake behind him. “Go get Dad!” the eldest brother had called over his shoulder even though he told the twins when they were older that he knew then that there was no way Fred would stray further from George.

 George remembers the feeling of Bill’s arms around him and the sudden jolt upwards towards the sunlight. He remembers breaking the surface in a jarring manner and heaving in a wet, choked gasp, desperately trying to fill his lungs with air as if he had been starving for it. Because he had been starving for it. He remembers feeling like Bill was holding him too tightly for him to breathe even then but also not wanting his big brother to loosen his grip for a second. He remembers coughing until he was afraid he would split open. He remembers Fred sitting on the dock, arms outstretched toward his brothers and Bill yelling at him in a shaky voice to get back before he fell in too. He remembers their mother hearing the commotion and running out with the rest of the family before adding to the commotion herself.

 “I told you not to come out here by yourselves!” she shrieked, gathering both Fred and George, who were both crying by then, into her arms. At some point, she managed to pull Bill in there too and she alternated between admonition and comforting the distraught twins while also praising her eldest for his quick thinking.

 He remembers when she finally let go of him, and after his father hugged him, and after Charlie and Percy hugged him, and after his mother hugged him again, and after Bill gave him a gentle squeeze as if he were afraid he’d break, sitting on the grass and trying to quiet his sobs. He remembers the family backing away just enough to give him room to really catch his breath, except for Fred who wormed his way up close against his side, linking their arms together. “All right, Georgie,” he had whispered comfortingly even though he was just out of breath as George.

 He remembers the taste of fresh air on his lips and in his lungs. It tasted of honeysuckle and buttercups, clean laundry, and apple pie. He closed his eyes and listened to the birds singing, his father’s gentle voice calming everyone, and the breeze rustling the trees over his head. It tickled his face and made him sneeze. Fred sneezed too.

 He remembers once the frightened tears ceased their flow how he just breathed and breathed and breathed. He remembers feeling the rise and fall of Fred’s chest as he too breathed and breathed and breathed. Even so young, the impression was firmly imprinted on his mind how he had taken breathing for granted. How beautiful and freeing it was to be able to inhale and exhale at will. With each breath, the panic died and was replaced by calm. He remembers Charlie saying something about Ron and Ginny before being the first to leave, Percy following him just a moment later. He remembers his mother gathering up into her arms and his father taking Fred who was still just as shaken by the incident. He remembers the grayish cast to his father’s face, always so strong and stoic as he bent his head down and whispered something in Bill’s ear that made him blush.

 He remembers the feeling of being carried in his mother’s arms back to the Burrow, his father and Fred close enough that Fred could still keep a tight grip on his wet shirt sleeve. He remembers peering over his mother’s shoulder to see Bill right behind them, swiping suspiciously at his eyes with an already soaked sleeve. He remembers laying his head down and concentrating on each and every breath, appreciating how easy and natural it was once again.

 From that day, the feeling of suffocating, the tightness in his chest and the black dots dancing in his vision, haunted George. As he became older, the nightmares grew few and far between, but there were still some nights where he woke up gasping for air, lungs aching for it as a starving man wants for food. And every single night it happens, he hears Fred beside him, an arm on his hand, nearly just as breathless as he is. “All right, Georgie,” his twin will say and George will close his eyes and listen to the sound of Fred breathing until they both managed to slow down and match their inhales and exhales. It never takes too long with Fred by his side.

 

Except for tonight.

 Tonight, George is positive that his chest is going to explode. It hurts so much. Every breath in and every breath out is ragged and the air feels as though it’s being violently forced to and from his lungs. Laying on the cold, hard stone floor of Hogwarts, he closes his eyes and gropes in the darkness until he finds his brother’s hand. He squeezes it and whispers, “All right, Freddie.” and then listens.

 But all he can hear are the explosions still going off in distant halls. All he can hear are a jumble of voices far away shouting for help, yelling spells, and calling out names. All he can hear is sobbing.

 Dad. Mum. Bill. Charlie. Percy. Ron. Ginny. God, he’s never wanted to hear his father cry. And his mother’s wail sends an icy chill through his blood. It strikes him how distinct all of their cries are, just like their voices. His father, whispering their names in a vain attempt at comfort between the sobs he tries to hold in so he can hold up his family. His mother is so weary and broken. Bill is so quiet that Fred can’t hear him so much as feel him nearby, his body shaking silently. Charlie is angry and disbelieving. Percy sounds as if someone is physically strangling him and George closes his eyes even tighter as if he can block out the sound. Ron, the baby brother, choking and gasping, and Ginny the baby of the whole family sobbing softly. Together, their cries form a cacophony of suffering that makes it that much more difficult to breathe. George closes his eyes so tightly that his head starts to pound.

 The other noises fade until their nothing more than all one dull roar in his ear. He concentrates, not on trying to breathe, but on hearing. _It’s the one ear,_ he thinks. _Can’t hear as well as I used to. I just need to. . ._ He’s still waiting. And listening.

 But there’s nothing. Fred doesn’t squeeze his hand back and whisper his name. He doesn’t match George’s breathing with his own until they’re both slow and steady. Because Fred isn’t breathing at all.

 Which is what makes it impossible for George to breathe right now. He opens his eyes, a harsh gasp choking him. He stares in front of him until his blurred vision starts to clear just a little bit. Colors and shapes slowly come together and he can just make out the still form of Fred so close that _if_ Fred has been breathing, then George would have surely felt it tickle his face. But he can’t feel anything. He can’t hear anything. And he can’t see anything either. Fred’s chest is still, so still, that George waits for his heart to stop because _it’s all too much._

 “Freddie.” He whispers his twin’s name again, evoking magic that no witch or wizard possessed. His voice sounds strange, even to him. It’s hoarse and stretched and maybe Fred doesn’t know it’s him. “Freddie, wake up. It’s me. George. Georgie.”

 It’s getting even harder to breathe. George isn’t convinced that he’s not underwater somehow, a single thought weighing him down and keeping him below the surface. He tries to push it away and kick towards the sunlit surface but everything just keeps getting darker and darker.

 “Georgie.” Not the voice he needs to hear. His mother, voice raw with anguish, touches his hair and it feels like another weight has been added to his chest pushing him down even more. “Sweetie.”

 George tries a swallow, a painful lump in his throat making it nearly impossible. _No, no, no, no, no._ He pleads inwardly, still waiting for Fred’s first intake of breath. _“Please, Freddie. I can’t. I can’t do this, I can’t-”_

 Blackness plays at the edges of his vision and George wishes that it would just envelop him entirely. He wishes for the relief of unconsciousness, for an end to this fight. Shaking now, he pulls Fred’s hand closer to him and tucks it against his chest. It’s cold and maybe if he can warm it up. . .

 “I can’t-” The words surprise him just as much as they surprise his family. George is shaking harder now and he clenches his teeth in an attempt to keep them from clanking together. He can’t stop shaking. He’s so cold.

 “George?” His father, tone worn thin with grief and disbelief takes on a note of worry.

 George squeezes Fred’s hand so tightly that his own fingers start to go numb, clutching it to his aching chest. He’s suffocating. Drowning all over again but this time he can’t wake up. “I can’t- I can’t bre-”

  _“All right, Georgie.”_

 He’s waiting for a breath that never comes. George isn’t sure how much more his abused lungs can take. But he’s not a little boy anymore. He’s not sinking in a lake. Bill can’t save him this time. No one can. The only one who can save him is. . .

  _Dead. Fred is dead. He’s gone._

 The thought, kept at bay for so long, slams into George and consumes him. It’s as if half of him has suddenly been ripped away and he’s falling through a blackness so deep that he can’t see his hand in front of his face. Visions of his past, growing up in the Burrow, warm and happy with his mother and father, sister and brothers, and _Fred_ flood through him but then it all screeches to a mad halt here in the Great Hall of Hogwarts and he can’t see past it. It’s a nightmare but this time he can’t wake up.

 When the first sob finally takes itself from him, George feels like he’s splitting apart. He expects it to end him because the pain is just too much. But instead of bringing it all to a horrible close it just keeps going. It gets worse. He doesn’t understand why or how it doesn’t make everything stop. He can feel his heart crashing against his ribs keeping him the thing that Fred isn’t. For all of their lives, twenty years, they were always the same. So identical that even their own family had trouble telling them apart. George had joked that losing an ear was the best thing that could happen though not even Fred had found that especially funny.

 It’s beyond his comprehension, the grief, and the physical pain that it’s causing him, and it just keeps getting worse somehow. He doesn’t understand how it’s possible to feel this much pain and live. A horrible cry, something that sounds like a mortally wounded animal pierces the black night and George nearly lets go of Fred to clench a hand over his ear. It drowns out all of the other sounds around him until it feels as though it just might swallow him whole.

  _Fred._

 It isn’t until he nearly passes out that he realizes that the cry is coming from him. It scares George that he’s capable of making such a noise but it’s beyond his control to even try to stop. The sobs are hitting him full force now, coming one after the other in a wave of unrelenting anguish. If breathing were hard before he started crying, George has forgotten what it’s like entirely now.

  _Fred._ His brother. His twin. His other half. The one who made him whole. Complete. Fred is gone and in his place is a black nothingness, a deep dark hole that George has fallen into.

 For twenty years, George has known only what it’s like to have Fred right by his side. He’s only ever known to be _George and Fred. And._ Never one without the other. Never. He’s not ready to be just _George._  He can’t be.

 “Freddie please,” George manages to choke out two words in between a stream of incoherent sobs. How can it be possible to survive this much pain? He keeps waiting for it to be over and for it all to end, but it keeps coming and it doesn’t stop, and _how?_

 “Georgie,” Someone, not Fred, says his name and George can’t answer. Shaking, he pulls himself up until he’s bent over his brother’s body and he blinks rapidly through the veil of tears, trying to see. There’s only one thought in his mind but he can’t fully grasp it. It just doesn’t make sense.

 Fred’s face is drained of all color except for his shock of red hair which is matted down with an even brighter blood red. There’s a hint of a grin on his lips and George keeps hoping and praying that any second now, his eyes will pop open and that small grin will stretch into a larger one and he’ll crack a stupid joke and-

 But he doesn’t. He’s cold beneath George’s touch and stiller than he’s ever been in his entire life. His life which is now over. Here, at the end, Fred, wild and unstoppable Fred, is still. It’s wrong in so many different ways. Too many for George to count.

 “Sweetheart,” his mother again. Somehow, amidst all of her own suffering, a mother who has lost a child, she finds her way to him and she reaches out. Love and comfort ready, waiting to hold him like she did when he was little and fell down and skinned his knees. When he fell off his broom for the first time and broke an arm. When he almost drowned.

 But she had always had made room for Fred, because when George was hurt, Fred hurt too and vise versa. It was part of that connection that they had shared since birth, an invisible string keeping them together until it had just suddenly been snapped. And instead of being pulled into his mother’s embrace, George felt as though he was careening somewhere around in space, an endless free fall down to a bottom that just didn’t exist.

 George rests his head on top of Fred’s chest, listening and feeling for the beat of a heart that would never come. All he feels is the beat of his own heart which is somehow still plugging away at a rate so regular that it’s unbelievable. How can it go on when Fred’s has stopped? They always hurt together so George has always just assumed one could not live without the other.

 Yet, here he was.

 

And Fred wasn’t.


	2. Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry Freaking Potter saves the day again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

“What a mess.”

 

Harry nods in agreement.  He stands with Ron in what is left of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, gazing at the unrecognizable heap of rubble before them.  Everything is blackened with fire and crushed underneath piles of wood and stone. It’s all that’s left after the Battle, fairing no better than the rest of Diagon Alley.

 

Ron shuffles forward and nudges something with his foot only to have it crumble into a pile of ashes.  He swears softly. “Gone,” he whispers and Harry wonders if he’s talking about the shop. “It’s all gone.  How is George supposed to come back from this?”

 

He’s definitely _ not _ talking about the shop.  That pales in comparison to Fred’s death.  The loss of his twin makes the shop look almost whole again.  Harry stares at the back of Ron’s head, aching to say something,  _ anything _ to bring even the smallest amount of comfort to his best friend, but he knows that there are no words in all the languages of the world that could help.  Desperate to at least try, Harry puts a hand on Ron’s shoulder.

 

Ron bows his head and wipes at his eyes.  “Damn it, I wish I could stop crying.” Even the forced laugh sounds more like a sob.  “I feel like it’s all I do these days.”

 

“I feel like it’s all anyone does these days.”  Harry offers. He’s not sure if it helps Ron at all, to know that he isn’t the only one who is constantly on the verge of tears, but he doesn’t want him to feel as though he should stop for the sake of appearing stronger.  Why bother pretending? Glass crunches beneath his feet and Harry looks down at what was once a window. He studies his and Ron’s reflections in the fractured glass. 

 

It’s not like he hasn’t experienced loss before.  He’s well acquainted with death, thanks very much.  But this is different. Watching his best friend and his family stumble through their tainted life like a light had permanently gone out and they couldn’t see their hand in front of their eyes, it was a very unfamiliar loss.  It didn’t end with Fred’s death but rather began with it.

 

Ginny hasn’t left her mother’s side and can only cast regretful glances Harry’s way.  It pains him to see her hurting so much and he knows there’s nothing he can do or say.  Ron is quieter than Harry has ever known him to be and he absolutely  _ hates  _ it.  He’d give anything to hear him complain or bicker with Hermione again.  Percy wears a mask of guilt every time Harry sees him though it’s completely undeserved.  Charlie and Bill bump in each other every few minutes, both of them trying to put some of the shattered pieces back together.  Mr. Weasley has confined himself to his workshop, staring at Muggle artifacts and talking to himself. Mrs. Weasley is a constant flurry of motion throughout the Burrow, cooking food that no one is hungry enough to eat, and cleaning a house that is already sparkling clean, stopping only to cry over her family and fret over them, especially George.

 

And George. . . Harry’s throat grows tight.  George hasn’t left his and Fred’s room, now just his.  He hasn’t spoken one word since they all arrived back home nearly a week ago now and he’s only eaten enough to appease his distraught mother.  He hasn’t cried since the night Fred died, though one would think that the rest of them have cried enough to start a flood. There’s an emptiness in his eyes that makes Harry feel nauseous.  He’s afraid that Ron hasn’t lost just one brother. This whole trip to Diagon Alley was to be able to talk to George about something but now, as Harry stares about at the obliterated remains, he wonders what on earth they were thinking. 

 

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up and Harry whirls around, wand at the ready.  Beside him, Ron is practically his mirror image.

 

“Settle down, Mr.  Potter. Mr. Weasley.”  Professor McGonagall’s voice is gentle, instantly calming Harry’s frayed nerves.  She looks over at Ron, eyes full of compassion. “Your mother told me I would find the two of you here.”

 

“Professor,”  Harry lets out the breath he was holding.  “Sorry about that. Is everything okay?”

 

Professor McGonagall smiles at him.  “Everything is fine,” she replies, though they’re all aware that “fine” is a completely relative term these days.  “I was coming to let you know that I-” and here her voice catches a little, “I found something for you from Professor Dumbledore.  In his office.”

 

Momentarily stuck on the idea of anyone finding anything left intact at Hogwarts, much less Professor Dumbledore’s office, Harry merely exchanges a questioning glance with Ron.  McGonagall’s face is difficult to read. She looks exhausted, but they’re all exhausted. She looks sad, but they’re all sad. She looks lost, but they’re all lost. 

 

“What is it?”  he finally asks when she doesn’t elaborate further.  

 

McGonagall reaches into her robes and pulls something two small items out.  A small piece of parchment miraculously preserved from the fires, and a small hourglass that reminds Harry of Hermione's Time-Turner from their Third Year.  She hands the parchment, bound by a thin thread, to Harry. Setting the hourglass aside on a nearby boulder, she nods. “I will give you some privacy.”

 

Eyes lingering on the hourglass, Harry reaches out and takes the parchment.  Some sort of protection charm had to have been placed on it. While everything around them is smashed and burned beyond recognition, the paper is completely untouched by the flames or torn.  He pulls the thread loose and unrolls it carefully, halfway expecting to have it crumble in his hands.

 

Dumbledore’s handwriting is neatly scrolled across the paper, so familiar and alive and comforting all at the same time.  Harry’s eyes sting a bit and he blinks a few times before clearing his throat to read aloud.

 

_ Harry,  _

 

_ If you are reading this then it means that you have defeated Lord Voldemort, though I don’t doubt that this victory has come at enormous cost.  My heart is heavy as I write this for I know that you have already suffered much loss in your life, however, I hope to lessen it if even just a small bit with my gift to you. _

 

_ Magic is a powerful tool, Harry.  As you well know, some use it for their own glory no matter how others may suffer, while others use it for good.  It cannot be trusted to everyone. The more power one has, the more responsibility they need. My gift to you is one of extraordinary magic and power, and thus, responsibility.   _

 

_ You are the only one I know I can trust to use this correctly.  Similar to a Time-Turner in appearance and its general use, there are crucial differences and it’s of the utmost importance that you understand both similarities and differences.   _

 

_ It is a gift from Nicolas Flamel, something he conjured up during his time as an alchemist and he gave it to be shortly before he and his wife passed.  No, it is not a piece of the Philosopher's Stone nor is it a stray bit of the Elixir of Life. He told me, that while an immortal life might seem appealing to most there is also much loss to be suffered.  After Lord Voldemort nearly came to have the Stone in his possession, he requested that I take this to use at the proper time. _

 

_ It is called simply, the Sands of Restoration and it can only be used once.  Harry. . . please give this a great deal of thought before you use it. Once you turn it, you can speak a name, any name of someone that you have lost, and they will be returned to you.  You must speak the name before the sand runs out otherwise your chance will be lost. It cannot merely be turned back over for another opportunity. _

 

_ Choose wisely.  I know that you are the only one capable of using this for good, and you, who have lost more than most young wizards I have met, are the one who most deserves this rare chance.  After all, you have given for the very best of our world, I know within the deepest part of my heart, that it is right to give it to you. _

 

_ Regards, Dumbledore. _

 

There’s a long stretch of silence where neither Harry nor Ron can even speak.  Harry stares at the letters and words, rereading them until they all became one giant blur of nothingness.  His mind races. His parents. Lupin. Sirius. He can bring one of them back. No loose ends. No drawbacks.  No legal consequences or great risks. It seems too good to be true. But there are Dumbledore’s words and they  _ have  _ to be true.  As impossible as it seems, Harry believes every single bit of it.

 

He reaches out and touches the hourglass.  It feels warm to the touch and glows very slightly.  Harry stares at the sand at the bottom half and then turns it over.  The glow increases and he has to take his hand away because of the heat now climbing to a level that’s uncomfortable.  The sand rushes through quickly, much quicker than he expected it to, the top level sinking and the bottom level rising. But it doesn’t matter. He knows.  Then he speaks.

 

“Fred Weasley.” The name comes out easily, natural as can be. He hears Ron gasp and looks over at his best friend whose face has gone stark white. He turns to Harry, opens his mouth to say something but there’s a brilliant white flash of light and a clap of thunder, and both of them fall to the ground. 

 

Harry’s ears are ringing and he has to rub his eyes and blink several times to make sure he hasn’t gone blind. He looks around the room to see that nothing has been disturbed. Despite its fragile state, the shop doesn’t look a bit more disturbed than when they first arrived. Dumbledore’s letter is still clutched in his hand, but the hourglass is gone. Just like that, in the blink of an eye, they’re back where they started.

 

Then he hears his friend cry out and turns, feeling his heart lurch when he sees Ron hunched over the still body of his older brother. Fred lays as still as he did on the night of the Battle, but his face doesn’t have that ghastly white to it and there isn’t a spot of blood anywhere on him anywhere that Harry can see. He looks like he’s simply sleeping. Harry crawls over to the two Weasley brothers and puts a hand on Ron’s shoulder, afraid to speak but needing to know. “Is he-”

 

“He’s breathing,” Ron whispers in disbelief. He has one hand on Fred’s chest and together he and Harry watch the rise and fall of Fred Weasley breathing. “He. . .” Ron licks his lips and swallows hard before venturing, “Fred?”

 

Harry can’t take his eyes off of Ron’s face, a complete transformation from what it had been just minutes before. Fear mingling with hope against all reason. Harry himself is nearly too terrified to breathe as he watches. What if it doesn’t work? What if this is just a sick joke and Fred disappears or stops breathing again any second now? What if he never wakes up? How could Harry put his best friend through something like this? Fred’s death had already stripped Ron and the rest of the Weasleys of part of their family heart, to say nothing of the human shell that George has become. What if-

 

But then Fred stirs, his eyelashes fluttering against his face. His cheeks are flushed with color in contrast to Ron who is as white as a sheet. “Freddie, can you hear me?”

 

It’s so quiet that Harry is afraid any sound might break the spell and he and Ron will both wake up to find it all a dream. But then Fred’s lips part and whispers, “Ron?”

 

Ron’s body starts with a violent sob, wrenching Harry’s heart. It’s all he can do to remain grounded and not flashback to the night they lost Fred. He can’t do this again.  Images flash before him. George, looking more dead than alive. Ginny standing still in shock. Ron collapsing to the ground beside his mother and brother, sobs tearing out of him. 

 

Fred’s eyelashes flutter again, this time more, and then his eyes open ever so slightly, just enough for Harry and Ron to see the brown in them. His hand moves, fumbling around until it comes in contact with Ron’s. He takes a deep breath, blinking heavily until his eyes open a bit more. He looks like he’s waking from a very deep sleep. “Ron.”

 

“Fred,” Ron whispers reverently. “Fred, you’re- you’re alive.”

 

Clearly disoriented, Fred looks up, eyes flickering to find Harry. “I. . . I am. What, what happened?”

 

“What’s the last thing that you remember?” Harry asks him because Ron is incapable of more speech. 

 

Fred’s brow furrows in concentration. “Hogwarts,” he says slowly. Rubbing his forehead with the tips of his forehead, the words come haltingly. “Percy joked. There was. . .” He trails off and suddenly his eyes widen and he sits up so quickly that he nearly bumps heads with Ron. “The battle! There was a battle and-“

 

“It’s over,” Harry soothes. He reaches out and touches Fred’s arm, surprised by the warmth his feels. To his embarrassment tears come to his eyes and he blinks them away. “It’s over, Fred. We won.”

 

Fred is staring at him, his mind working overtime and he struggles to understand something he has no memory of. His eyes dart over to Ron and he asks, “If we won then why does Ron look like he’s seen a ghost?”

 

_ Because he practically has _ . But Fred isn’t a ghost. He’s not transparent or pale and Harry can touch him and feel the warmth. He’s alive. He sees the confusion in Fred’s eyes, and his own mind races to comprehend all of it. 

 

Fred is alive.

 

Poor Fred can only look to Harry helplessly as Ron just continues to stare at him, tears falling silently down his cheeks. “Why is it so shocking that I’m alive?” he finally chokes out. 

 

He’s afraid, Harry can see that. Ron does indeed look like he’s seen a ghost. The three of them are alone in the cold, quiet remains of the shop when the last thing Fred remembers is fire and chaos in Hogwarts. 

 

“Fred,” Harry isn’t sure what to say. How do you go about telling someone that they’ve been dead for five days?

 

“You were dead,” Ron whispers, eyes haunted. That, Harry, supposes, is one way. Like ripping off a very, very,  _ very  _ big bandaid. “There was an explosion and we were all knocked apart. I heard Percy scream and I looked over and I saw- I saw you. You were dead.”

 

Now the color drains from Fred’s face and his eyes widen. “What?” He starts to rise to his feet but Ron suddenly lurched forward and pulls Fred close to him, crying hard. As bewildered as he looks, Fred is quick to return the embrace, staring over Ron’s shoulder at Harry. 

 

Harry sits back on his heels, unable to do anything else. He feels. . . happy. Not just a little bit, but more than he has in ages. The happiness floods through him, beginning in his heart and spreading to every bit of him. He can feel it in his toes and fingertips and all the way to the top of his head.

 

_ Joy.  _

 

“Just wait a second,” Fred says shakily and Harry forces himself back down to earth for his sake.  “I don’t understand. What happened. What  _ is  _ happening?” He looks around as much as Ron’s stranglehold around his neck will allow him to. “Why are we in our shop?” Then a sudden panic darkened his countenance and he nearly shouts. “Where’s George?”

 

“Damn it!” Ron surprises Harry by jerking away from Fred, though one hand still clutches his brother’s shirt. “George! Everyone! Harry, we’ve got to-”

 

“Hang on,” Harry interrupts gently. The last thing he wants to do is delay the end of the misery of the Weasley family has endured, but poor Fred looks like he’s seconds away from going mad. “I think we need to clue Fred in on what’s been going on before we do anything else.”

 

Ron stares at his brother until Fred is forced to drop his gaze, at a loss for how to respond to the unchecked emotion swirling in the younger Weasley’s eyes. “Fred,” he says painfully. “I- you were dead and-”

 

“I’ve gathered that much,” Fred makes a pitiful attempt at a joke. He’s looking rather green in the face and Harry doesn’t blame him. It makes him sick to think about too and he knows the whole story. 

 

“You were dead,” Harry finally takes over for Ron who can’t bring himself to finish. “An explosion killed you. But everyone else is fine,” he adds quickly when Fred’s face starts to exchange the sickish green to a frightened white. “We’ve just been. . . we won, Fred. We won the battle.  Voldemort is gone.” The details of the battle and Voldemort’s death are for once, of little importance so he skips over them, focusing on Fred. 

 

He manages to piece the story back together as incredible as it sounds. McGonagall meeting them at the shop with Dumbledore’s gift. The letter. It sounds crazy even to his own ears but he’s hoping, that if anyone will understand or just accept it for all its luancy, it’s Fred Weasley. 

 

Fred closes his eyes, listening to every word with an intensity that Harry has never seen on him. He doesn’t interrupt once but just sits quietly, hardly reacting at all. “Why me?” he asks after he finally takes everything in. 

 

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat and runs an anxious hand through his hair. He knew this was coming at some point, he just hoped it would be later down the road when everything had settled a little bit. But then again, would they ever settle?

 

“You could have brought back your mum or dad, Harry. Or Lupin. Or Sirius.” 

 

“I know.” 

 

Harry stares out a blasted window at the quiet street in front of them.  “Because,” he says, and Ron turns to him, surprised to hear him have his answer so swiftly. “I have a family. I have Ron. I have Hermione. I have Ginny. I have your whole family. I’ve had you for all these years now. Ever since Ron and I were eleven. That first day we met,” Harry looks at Ron.  “You so easily just accepted me and it felt like I had known you my whole life. And then your family took me in and treated me like one of your own-“

 

“You are family,” Ron says, looking like he’s seconds from losing it again. 

 

“I know,” Harry says quietly. “But honestly, I didn’t even have to think about it. I couldn’t have brought back just one of my parents. It wouldn’t have worked. Same reason I couldn’t bring back Remus and not Tonks. Not one without the other. And Sirius. . . It had to be you, Fred.”

 

“Over your godfather?” To say Fred looks overwhelmed would be the understatement of the century. 

 

A sad smile ghosts across Harry’s face. “I’ll miss him every day for the rest of my life,” he says hoarsely. “But honestly? Choosing you. . . It was easy. I’d do it again in the heartbeat. For the same reason, I couldn’t choose one of my parents or Lupin. Ron and Ginny lost one brother and I. . . I was afraid they’d lose another one.”

 

_ Not one without the other.  _

 

That’s when Fred pushes Ron to the side just enough so he can vomit onto the stone floor. He covers his face with his hands, pressing the heels of his palms deep into his eyes. “God, Harry.” The words come out in a broken whisper. “I don’t- how can I-”

 

“You don’t have to do or say anything, Fred,” Harry whispers back. “You being you is quite enough. It’s more than enough.”

 

He means it. It fixes more than anything else would have. A small part of his heart aches for his parents or Lupin or his godfather but it’s such a small part that it’s hardly noticeable at the moment and that surprises him. 

 

Ron reaches over and hugs Fred tightly to himself once again, but this time he drags Harry in too. There’s an almost embarrassing amount of tears shed but to Harry, it’s a release. A release of  _ everything. Regardless of _  what he could have had, he knows better than he has known anything else that he made the right choice, and the peace in knowing that outweighs everything else. 

 

They stay like that a long while, each of them crying and only half-heartedly trying to stop. Tears of pent up sorrow, tears of disbelief, tears of joy. When Harry looks at Ron, his heart feels whole and happy as if it were never broken in the first place. As much as they claim that time heals all wounds Harry wasn’t sure how long he wanted to wait to see his best friend smile again.  

 

It’s actually Ron who first breaks the hug, reluctantly letting go of both Fred and Harry though not blinking once as he stares as his returned brother. “We have to-” he scrubs at his red, swollen eyes. “We’ve got to get you home, Fred. Mum and Dad. George. Everybody. Especially George.”

 

At his twin’s name, the smile on Fred’s face vanishes and a sober air settles over them. “How. . .” he swallows. “How bad?” His voice is grave and he looks afraid to hear the answer. 

 

Neither Harry or Ron know how to respond at first. They look at each other and Harry can see a poorly concealed fear in Ron’s eyes. They haven’t made it quite yet but they’re so close. He forces a smile to his face and puts his hand on Fred’s elbow. “I don’t think that it’s anything we. . . or at least you can’t fix.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd apologize for this poorly written, not-at-all-edited, super lazily contrived chapter. I thought about using a Time-Turner, but I wanted to try something different. Originally I had a mysterious old wizard appear but I knew it would be too out there. Am I in love with this chapter? No. But I don't hate it either. I was looking for a way to bring Fred back and it's good enough for me lololol. I'm struggling, guys. Can we start a petition for JK Rowling to actually bring Fred Weasley back?
> 
> I'm almost done with this self-indulgent, therapeutic piece of work, so thank you for putting up with me!


	3. Repairs in Project

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like, on today of all days, this was an appropriate time to post this chapter.

 

“George is upstairs,” Ginny informs him when they’ve all (somewhat) collected themselves. Fred is thrown off balance a bit when just the name wipes the smile off of everyone’s face and they instantly become sober. He wonders why the commotion of his return didn’t bring his brother downstairs in the first place and the thought makes his stomach hurt. 

 

“Is he okay?” Before the words even leave his lips, Fred knows that it’s a stupid question. His mum looks like she might start crying again and everyone exchanges uneasy glances with one another as if they’re hoping someone else will tell him the truth. 

 

Without waiting another moment, Fred heads to the stairs, hardly noticing that both his mother and father are right behind him. “George?” He tries to call out to George, but fear quiets him and he can only whisper. 

 

The door is closed and Fred puts a shaking hand around the knob, drawing in a deep breath before he goes to open it. He feels his father lay a hand on his shoulder. 

 

George is sleeping, or at least Fred thinks he might be.  He’s laying still enough, his breath steady and even. God, he looks like a horrible mess.  He’s far too pale with dark shadows under his eyes. And has he lost weight already? Fred surveys his twin brother in dismay, reluctant to wake him if he actually is asleep because it looks like he needs about a month’s worth of sleep.  The fact that the commotion downstairs brought about by his unexpected return had clearly done nothing to disturb him is perhaps the most worrying bit. 

 

He sinks down on the edge of the bed,  _ his  _ bed, he realizes with a pang, and hesitantly touches a hand to George’s shoulder.  “All right, Georgie?”

 

To his surprise, George’s eyes open right away and despite himself, Fred feels his lips turn upwards in a grin.  His ecstasy is short-lived however when he actually sees how George is looking at him. 

 

Eyes round in panic, George sits up, moving so quickly that Fred has no time to react when his brother gives him a violent shove off the end of the bed. He catches a glimpse of George reaching into his back pocket when their father cuts him off. 

 

_ “Expelliarmus!” _

 

George’s wand flies out of his hand. He looks momentarily stunned and then chaos erupts. Fred hears their mother cry out as she flings herself in front of him, shielding him from  _ George  _ who has a look of complete outrage and grief etched on his face. Again, their father stops him but this time forcefully. His arms wrap around his thinner frame, pinning his arms to his side and dragging him away from Fred and to the corner of the room. “George!” He shouts as George struggles to break free. “George, listen to me!”

 

“Who are you?” George yells,  _ yells _ at him, eyes ablaze. “What the  _ hell  _ do you think you’re doing?”

 

“George,  _ George _ !” Their father implores, desperately trying to stop the tirade. “Stop it and lis-“

 

“Listen?” George interrupts. “Listen to what? Dad, that’s not- That’s not Fred. It can’t be.” His voice breaks and he sags a little in his father’s arms while staring at Fred. “That’s not Fred.”

 

“George,” Once again, their father speaks and Fred closes his eyes tightly for a moment, listening to the comfort and reassurance that has always been there. He can hardly stand to look at George who looks like he’s struggling between grief and anger and rapidly losing both battles. 

 

George’s legs buckle and he slides to the floor, supported all the way by his father. He presses the palms of his hands tightly against his eyes. “Oh my god,” he moans. “I’m losing it, aren’t I?”

 

Fred quickly detangles himself from his sobbing mother. “It’s okay,” he says, but he’s not sure if he’s talking to her, George, or himself. 

 

“Son,” Fred watches their father holding onto

George as if for dear life. Like he’s afraid of losing him somehow. And that’s when it hits Fred. The full impact of his actual death. It wasn’t just him his parents had lost. 

 

“Leave us alone,” he says after a while, adding when both of his parents given him a stricken look,

“Please.”  

 

“We’ll be right outside the door,” his mother tells him, reluctantly letting go. She presses a kiss to his forehead and hesitating before she backs away. “My boy,” she murmurs wonderingly. And when his father does the same, Fred forces a smile even though he wants to scream and put his fist through the wall.

 

This isn’t right. His father doesn’t cry. He’s not supposed to. And his mother, while always someone who has worn her heart openly on her sleeve for all to see, was also always one of the strongest people he’s always met. Now she’s crumbling before his eyes. His brothers and Ginny are all walking disasters, crying at the sight of him and then whenever he’s out of their sight. To say nothing of George who is borderline catatonic in the corner of the room right now. The joy that he grew up with and lived with for twenty years seems like it’s just been drained away completely. 

 

His eyes are dull, completely empty.  It’s like, Fred thinks with a shiver, staring into a void instead of at his own brother.  George has absolutely no reaction to seeing him. Instead, it’s like he’s staring straight through him.

 

_ Catatonic _ , Fred thinks with a sinking heart.  Ron was right. He chews on his bottom lip, at a loss for what to do next.  It’s not something he’s ever experienced, being at a complete loss when it comes to George.  They know each other at a level beyond the understanding of the rest of their family. One has always known what the other is thinking or how they feel, or what they’re about to say or do.  But now, Fred hasn’t a clue.

 

“George.”  When the name comes out in a hoarse whisper, Fred clears his throat and tries again.  “George, it’s me.” George closes his eyes again. He hates the anxiety coursing through his veins right now, but he can’t seem to find the invisible thread that has held them together for their whole lives.  George is right in front of him and he can’t reach him. The thought terrifies Fred.

 

_ What did you expect?   _ Deep down, Fred knows his return could never have been entirely joyous, complete with fireworks and noisemakers.  There had to be shock, disbelief, and tears of several different emotions. Ron had been with Harry, had witnessed Fred being brought back, and  _ he _ had bawled uncontrollably for at least twenty minutes.  But after that, after both Ron and Harry had calmed down enough to explain, it was supposed to get easier.

 

Sure, it still hadn’t quite sunk in.  He had been killed. He was dead. Actually dead. For five days.  His family had mourned for him. They were in the middle of planning his funeral for crying out loud.  It was a lot to take in and Fred is certain that it’ll never completely make sense to him. But he desperately wants to undo as much damage as possible as quickly as possible.  The rest, accepting what had happened to him and realizing that he’s in debt to Harry Potter for his whole life, that can all come later. After he fixes what was undeniably broken.  They’ve all been broken, but not beyond repair. Not even George. Fred refuses to believe it even if his brother looks shattered past recognition. 

 

“George,”  Fred tries a bit more firmly this time and tries to ignore a small swell of panic when George just closes his eyes again.  “George, you stubborn git. Open your eyes and look at me, please!”

 

He feels terrible calling George a name when he’s in such a state and he hates that something as simple as calling his brother a name makes him feel terrible.  They’re brothers, after all. Calling each other names is a daily part of that.

 

Or at least it was.

 

“What do I have to do to get you to look at me right now?”  he asks desperately. “How can I get you to hear me?”

 

George’s lips open and he whispers a word that escapes Fred. He bends his head down, frantically trying to catch the sound even though it’s already long gone. “What? he asks, unable to resist giving George the lightest of shakes. “George, what did you say?”

 

“Shit,” George repeats himself in a voice that makes Fred shiver. It doesn’t sound like him at all. “I’ve really gone off, haven’t I? Lost it completely. Completely mental.”

 

“I. . .” Fred stares at his twin, feeling as though he’s staring at a complete stranger and hating every second of it. He’s used to feeling like he’s looking in a mirror at himself. “What?” George opens his eyes again, and again Fred finds himself staring into a void. “What do you mean?”

 

“Crazy,” George clarifies, continuing to stare straight through him. “I’ve gone crazy. I’m hallucinating.”

 

Fred bites his lip again, this time hard enough to draw blood. “No, it’s me.” Maybe he’ll look more like himself, more real, if he smiles. But he can’t even work up a fake one. George really does think that he’s gone mad. 

 

“This is quite an agreeable hallucination,” George says to himself because Fred clearly is not a part of this conversation. “Though I expect Mum will have a fit.”

 

He’s not real to George. He’s a vision brought on by lack of sleep, food, and more grief than Fred can stand to look at. He sits quietly and watches George continue to stare without  _ really  _ seeing. For the first time in his life, Fred Wesley is at a loss for words. 

 

It’s not supposed to be this hard. Not with George. Life as a twin was so easy. Someone was always there to share a thought or finish a sentence. His mother used to laugh and say that they were actually one person because they were so similar and that’s why she couldn’t tell them apart. When George lost his ear, Fred had spent some time accepting the idea that they were no longer identical. Never the best at accepting change, he had sulked about it for days but hadn’t admitted how shaken it really left him. Knowing that George has spent nearly a week without him, Fred realizes that the ear means nothing anymore. 

 

He hears a loud sniff and turns to see tears streaming quietly down George’s face. “Georgie-” heart aching, he tries to reach out. 

 

But George pulls away and holds a hand out in front of him. “Don’t,” he says, gulping back a sob. “I-I can’t. You’re not real and I. . . I just can’t.”

 

Fred, ignoring George’s plea, inches closer until he can reach him, pulls him as close as he possibly can and then holds him as tight as he possibly can. Instantly, he feels George tense in his arms and tries to pull away, but he refuses to even loosen his grip. 

 

“S-Stop!” George cries out. 

 

“No.”

 

George hits him, surprisingly hard for someone who looks like a nice fresh summer breeze might blow him over.  _ “Please,”  _ he begs. 

 

“No.”

 

Another thump on his back, harder this time. Fred winces. It doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as his heart. George sounds like he’s really struggling for breath. For most, it might make sense to let him go or at least not hold him quite so tightly, but Fred doesn’t dare for fear of him shattering into a million pieces. 

 

“I’m here, Georgie.”

 

Frantic now, George just shakes his head. “No,” he says with a sort of moan. “No, you’re not. Not really.”

 

He’s afraid to believe it. Of course, he is. Fred is still afraid that any wrong move or word would just erase all of this and he would having wasted Harry’s selfless act, go back to being really and truly dead. 

 

“D’ you remember when we kids and stole Percy’s wand and tried out spells in here?  Dad never quite got around to repairing all of the damage. On rainy nights I always got enough water on my head that I wouldn’t need to worry about showering.  And Mom refused to replace the curtain after you set it on fire. Said that we deserved to wake up with the sun if we were going to be so careless.”

 

George might as well be Petrified he’s so still but even that would be too easy. Fred briefly entertains the idea of some sort of memory charm, but he can’t stomach it.  So he just keeps talking, a steady ramble of words as more memories come tumbling back in.

 

“Do you remember when we were nine and buried Percy’s glasses in the garden?”

 

“Do you remember when we were eleven and Mum and Dad took just the two of us to Diagon Alley to get our supplies for our First Year?”

 

“Do you remember how relieved we were when we both got sorted into Gryffindor?  Or at least I was. I never told you, Georgie, but I was so afraid we’d get separated.  I didn’t care if we both wound up in Slytherin so long as it was the both of us.”

 

“What about the time I turned Ron’s Teddy Bear into a spider or when I gave him an Acid Pop?  I thought Mum would never let me leave the house again and you sat up here with me the whole time.”

 

“How about the time we found the Marauder's Map and took it right out of Filch’s office?  First-year too. We started out strong, we did.”

 

“Do you remember when Charlie used to give us secret flying lessons with his broom?  And Mum thought that we were helping him clear out the old shed.”

 

“And Bill taught us how to shrink Percy’s sweaters?”

 

“Poor Percy.  He did teach us how to tie our shoes.  And how to tie a tie. Do you remember that?”

 

“Did Ginny ever tell you that you were her favorite brother?  Because she told me, but I think she told all of us. I’m probably her favorite brother for real, ya know?  Actually, she probably likes Bill or Charlie best.”

 

“Do you remember-”

 

“Do you remember when we were five or six and I almost drowned?”

 

George’s voice startles Fred badly.  It startled him, even more, when his brother takes the opportunity to pull away from him, backing up until they’re a couple of feet away. It feels like miles. He feels paralyzed for a moment, too afraid to look at his brother.  Instead, he just talks some more. “I do. I remember everything about that day because it was the first and only time that I thought I would be Just Fred instead of Fred and George. And I never let myself think that thought again even when you had to go and get your damn ear blown off.  Because that thirty seconds, minute, two minutes, whatever it was, it was the worst time in my life. It was like-”

 

“It was like you were drowning too.”  George interrupts a second time. “Like every piece of you had been stripped away and the bloody world was just carrying around as if nothing had even changed.  Everything felt heavy and wouldn’t work properly. And you wanted to stop but it just. wouldn’t. stop.” 

 

“It was such a small amount of time but it felt like an eternity.”  Fred whispers.

 

“I never actually died though.”  

 

George sounds betrayed and that hurts.  Fred really does remember the terror of watching George disappear into the murky water.  He remembers feeling like he lost a part of himself even though all of his limbs remained attached.  He remembers crying before and after Bill saved him. He remembers everyone crying from fear and relief.  He remembers the nightmares that George used to have afterward and how he’d wake up to hear his brother practically choking.  He remembers sitting with him, calming him down until they both felt better.

 

“Will you believe that I’m real if I tell you that it’s because of Harry Potter?”

 

George snorts with laughter that lacks humor completely. “Believe me, I’ve imagined every possible scenario. The Resurrection Stone, Time Turners, even Professor Trelawney. And this isn’t the first time I’ve had a full out conversation with you. Or at least, whatever I can conjure up when I’m most desperate. This one is just more convincing than the others.”

 

Fred studies George closely. The sunlight streaming in through the windows bring attention to just how sickly he really looks. There’s a grayish cast to his pale skin and his cheekbones look more hollowed out. He looks extraordinarily tired, like someone with a terminal illness.  It’s his eyes that really get to Fred though. They’ve always known each other’s thoughts and feelings. But now there’s something George knows that Fred doesn’t. 

 

They can get past this though. They have to. 

 

“George,” he says quietly, hating the way George flinches away. “I need to know. What’s something I can say or do. . . anything at all, that will convince you I’m real and not a dream or a hallucination or anything like that?”

 

George merely shrugs. 

 

For a good while, they just sit on the floor together, neither one of them speaking or moving. Fred can’t take his eyes off of George who absolutely refuses to meet his gaze. But at least he’s not trying to push him away or hit him. Is it actual progress or is Fred just grasping at straws?

 

George picks at a loose nail in the floorboards. He traces the lines in the wood with his fingertip. He taps his foot in an anxious beat. It’s as if he’s just waiting for Fred to disappear and he’s desperately trying to keep his mind off of it altogether. Patience has never been Fred’s strong suit, but he’s at a loss so all he  _ can  _ do it wait. 

 

His nose itches. His back hurts from sitting on the floor in a cramped position for so long. George looks like he might fall apart if he moves a muscle so he stays still, ignoring the itch and the aches. He tries to think about something other than the current moment to keep his mind occupied, but it’s like all the happy memories have been vacuumed from the room and all he can see is George sitting in front of him looking more like a ghost than a human being. 

 

Maybe, in a sense, Fred does know what it’s like to lose his twin. But George got him back. He can get George back. 

 

The Burrow is quiet. Fred wonders if their parents are still waiting outside the door. He hopes not. He just wants,  _ needs _ it to be just him and George. Fred and George. Everything else is too constricted and claustrophobic. 

 

“George,” he says after he can bear the silence no longer. “I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what you felt. . . what you’re feeling now, and I don’t know how to help you and that scares me. It feels like might lose you and that scares me. I’m afraid that I can’t fix this. . . fix you. But even if I can’t l, I want you to know that I’m here, I’m real, and I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“You can’t promise that,” George whispers back. 

 

It’s the most positive response he’s received yet even though he’s pretty sure George is close to tears  _ again _ . Fred inches closer, relieved when George doesn’t try to move away. “Look, deep down I know that it’s not the most practical promise, but when have we ever been practical?”

 

Much to his surprise, George actually laughs and it’s a real laugh this time. It’s too short and he’s  _ definitely  _ on the verge of tears, but it’s real and it’s a beautiful sound. George looks up at him, a spark of hope lighting up his dull eyes, and Fred holds his breath, waiting. 

 

“Do you promise that you’re real?”

 

He sounds like a little boy. Fred can only nod his head and manage a quiet, “I promise, George.” 

 

Then suddenly, George lunges at him, wrapping his arms tightly around him and nearly knocking him backward. Fred steadies the two of them first and then returns the embrace.  George is shaking hard and not just because he’s crying. Fred holds his brother, feeling like the world has started to right itself. 

 

Maybe he grew up in a house full of siblings and maybe they fought and laughed so much that he never knew a day of silence.  Maybe he thought that it would always be that way. Maybe he knows now that he was wrong and that scares him. Maybe he knows now that they’re not invincible, not even himself and George.  Maybe that scares him too. Maybe a lot scares him now when he never used to be scared of anything. Maybe his family, once whole and happy, is now broken. Maybe, even though he’s confident that they’re not so broken that they can’t be fixed, a huge part of them is forever changed.

 

Maybe he’s okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to moonfairy13, Noivoom, oatmuffin56, and S.h for your encouraging words!!

**Author's Note:**

> I think there's four. . . maybe five parts to this. It's more or less finished, I just have to make it cohesive because I keep bouncing all over the place. I don't know what else to say except send all fics where Fred is alive directly to me and also write them for me because I'm losing my mind over here.


End file.
